


Time Out

by doctorcanon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is Not Okay, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sylvain ruins a dinner party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 02:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorcanon/pseuds/doctorcanon
Summary: This is the first State Dinner since the Tragedy of Duscur. Every noble is Faergus is in attendance. There will be food, dancing and even a hunting party the next day. However, what they've really come to see is the reemergence of the Crown Prince, not seen in public since the massacre. Everyone will be watching his every move. Dimitri is not remotely okay with this.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	Time Out

**Author's Note:**

> Another character piece but much longer. This is a largely canon divergent AU but all you need to know for this one is that I've changed the time period's aesthetic to the Victorian Era. So Ingrid is wearing a corset and bustle. There'll likely be more as I see fit, most of them centering around interactions with Sylvain before, during and after the game. Also Felix's mother is alive in this AU. This would be around the time Dedue is working on his Fodlan language skills so e doesn't call Dimitri "your highness" just yet. If you want more on this AU, come see me on tumblr.

In his heart of hearts, Dimitri knows Rodrigue is only trying to help. The opulent decorations, string quartet, and lavish food are supposed to remind them of happier times. Unfortunately, it’s working. The dour music from the Banquet hall makes him long for the song of his father’s fiddle. He wouldn’t suffer such slow, joyless music to play in his halls. The smell of food does nothing but make his numb tongue feel too big for his mouth. The decorations draped over the rafters are velvet are - were - Partricia’s favorite. He tries to remember that there’s no way Rodrigue would’ve known but it still hurts. Beneath his formal dressing, he feels like he’s sweating profusely but knows he isn’t. This is the first State Dinner held at Castle Blaiddyd in since the Tragedy of Duscur. Everyone is here to see him. They all want to know how he’s doing. It’s his obligation as Crown Prince to assuage their worries. Right now, the only people between Faregus and political upheaval are Margrave Gautier and Lord Fraldarius. And they haven’t stopped fighting since the king died giving Count Galatea endless headaches. 

Rodrigue says it’s best for Dedue to stay out of sight but he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is. He can barely stand to look at Dedue much less invite him to dinner. Still, all Dimitri wants is to eat with someone who will provide him some genuine comfort instead of platitudes and pity. But the Goddess and Rodrigue are uncompromising. Surrounded by all these well-meaning nobles, he’s utterly alone in his misery. 

“Your highness…” Ingrid doesn’t look like herself. One of the maids took a comb and heated coil to her messy braid and piled her hair atop her head like a crown. If she curtsied any deeper, it tip her over. Looking closely, he finds the dark pins in holding her manufactured curls in place. Whoever did her makeup gave her a false mole near her lip. A popular fashion, but it looks more like spilled paint. She’s most beautiful in a suit of armor, not a sparkling blue dress. She looks like she’s being strangled. “...you look...well…” She sounds like it too. 

“You as well.” He says bowing shortly as per royal propriety. “This is the first time I’ve seen you since…” ...since the funeral goes unsaid but drives a wedge between them just the same. Ingrid clears her throat. 

“We really must make a point to see each other more often.” She replies like she’s reading from a script. They stand about a foot apart but they are so distant from each other. He feels Count Galatea’s eyes on them but he doesn’t know where the man is. She doesn’t look like herself. She’s not Ingrid, she’s a bargaining chip made to look like marriage material. So willing to serve, she lets them. It’s disrespectful for her own parents to take advantage of her good nature. She deserves better. “Perhaps for the First Thaw Festival...”

“It’ll be outside. Perhaps then you won’t be painted and wrapped like a gift.” Dimitri catches himself. For a brief moment of terror, he realizes that he just said that out loud. Luckily, Ingrid laughs. Thank the Goddess, she thought it was a joke. 

“If I never have to see another corset again it’ll be too soon.” She sinks with a frustrated sigh. “It took hours to do my hair, your highness. Hours! I didn’t even know hair could take that long!” She whispers loudly. He laughs at that but doesn’t know if it’s genuine or not. Count Galatea turns his attention elsewhere. Mostly because Felix has made an appearance. Rodrigue’s attempts to get him to announce himself fall on deaf ears but Dimitri is the only thing between him and the Grand Hall so they’re forced to speak to each other. 

“Felix…”

“Shut up.” That’s about as good as their interactions get these days. Someone shouts after the young lord, scolding him for talking to the prince that way. Felix doesn’t care or at least makes a great show of it. Which is fine. Because Dimitri doesn’t care that Felix doesn’t care. They’re practically brothers. They’ll find each other again. Just like Rodrigue and his father. So he’s not worried. Maybe if he keeps saying that, it’ll hurt less. 

“I apologize on his behalf, your highness.” Ingrid says but Dimitri doesn’t know why. She’s not Glenn’s replacement. Felix isn’t her responsibility. “I’ll talk to him.” She doesn’t give Dimitri room to respond and sets herself up for failure. Rodrigue looks on approvingly and Dimitri obliges him with a smile that he doesn’t feel but the older man darkens when Margrave Gautier announces himself. 

“Your highness!” The Margrave’s grand, booming voice throws the quartet off and attracts stares. Rodrigue mutters something about an improprietous blowhard and doesn’t even bother to smile at the older man who proceeds to blatantly ignore him in favor of Dimitri. If there’s one thing he never liked about the Gautier Family is their need to _ touch  _ everyone. Lord Gautier hugs like a rabid serpent and even when he pulls away he grabs your shoulders and just... _ looks _ at you. “You’ve got some of your color back, son.” That’s a stab to the heart. No big deal. “We’re so glad to see you returning to court. Perhaps Lord Rodrigue will consider sending you to the monastery.” Rodrigue sputters. 

“We haven’t talked about that yet, Baptiste.” He hisses. Dimitri knows it’s coming. His father was sent to the monastery and so was his mother and all their friends. He doesn’t react. His mind can’t parse it yet. He can’t even think of leaving Faergus. 

“Well  _ they’ll  _ certainly whip him into kingly shape.” He coughs as the Margrave claps him on the back. “We haven’t decided whether or not to send Sylvain, can’t let that boy off his leash for a second or he runs around like a wild dog, humping everything in sight!” 

“Could you not, old man? I’m right here.” Sylvain groans. Dimitri forgets to breathe a sigh of relief. Sylvain is much taller than he remembers. People used to say that the Gautier descended from giants. Six feet tall and still growing, Sylvain is actually the shortest person in his family. Now his brother, that is a giant of a man. Sylvain moves between him and Lord Baptiste. Effectively getting to the man to let go of him. “My apologies, your highness.  _ The Honorable Margrave Gautier _ doesn’t know much about  _ discretion _ .” Sylvain ignores his father’s admonishing. Dimitri suppresses a groan as Sylvain wraps any arm around Dimitri’s shoulders. Honestly, what is it with their family and touching people? “I’m kidnapping the Prince, Lord Rodrigue. We have something to discuss.” Lord Rodrigue seems less than impressed. 

“Don’t distract the Prince, Sylvain.” Rodrigue sounds tired. Not surprising. The Gautiers are exhausting. Meanwhile Dimitri wracks his brain. He hasn’t seen Sylvain since his father’s funeral. What could they possibly have to discuss? Regardless, he lets himself be led away from the entrance to the reception hall. Dimitri doesn’t ask where they’re going but it’s quieter. He remembers that sigh of relief. They’re in the lower drawing room. In a few hours, noblemen from all over Faergus will be smoking cigars and arguing politics. Dimitri dreads the day he’s old enough to join them. 

“What did you need to discuss with me, Sylvain?” Dimitri asks, though it sounds more like an accusation. The older boy just laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Relax, I don’t need to discuss anything. You just looked like you needed a rescue, that’s all.” Sylvain says. Dimitri sinks. 

“Am I truly that obvious?” He asks. If only the floor would open up and swallow him. Two years of veritable solitude only to be thrown into the deep-end and with some of the most annoying politicians in Fodlan. Faergus can make a war out of anything. Even dinner. 

“Maybe not to some people.” He means Lord Rodrigue. “But I’ve got your back. I’ve been hanging around these old men a little longer than you.” Dimitri grimaces.

“For a year.” He replies a bit petulantly. He doesn’t know but Sylvain looks wistful for a moment, but just as quickly, it’s gone. 

“Still longer than you.” He teases. For some reason, Dimitri feels a bit lighter. It’s been a while since he’s been allowed the small luxury of having a conversation for a friend. Though Sylvain seems more intent on teasing him. 

“We’ll have to go back at some point.” Dimitri objects. Sylvain shrugs. 

“And?” He’s never cared for the rules of propriety, why would he start now? He rounds one of the couches and set himself down with a long, exaggerated sigh. He grins at Dimitri and pats the cushion next to him. Dimitri looks back at the door as if Rodrigue is going to burst through with a search party, but ultimately decides to sit by Sylvain. “So...how’s the castle been? Can’t be easy with Felix’s dad shadowing your every move.” He says. Interesting. Sylvain doesn’t ask how he is. Perhaps it’s obvious how much he’s struggling. If he needed this so called rescue, why even bother to ask? 

“No, it’s not.” He finds himself saying before decides what to say. “The dead might be gone but their work still remains. Lord Rodrigue has been helping me but it’s been...difficult.” That’s a vast understatement but Sylvain does him the courtesy of not mentioning it. “Managing it all I just...how did my father ever do it?” He says. Sylvain doesn’t answer so he figures he should keep talking. “Everyone needs something and I’m being pulled in so many directions at once. There’s no one to ask how he did it all. Then there are those who think me weak and unfit.” Sylvain sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this…” Sylvain says. “...but there  _ have _ been little rebellions popping up here and there.” Dimitri starts and whips around to Sylvain who already has his hands up. “...don’t worry. We’re dealing with them.” Dimitri groans. 

“This is precisely what I mean. How am I supposed to be a king if no one tells me anything?” Out of desperation he asks, “Is it me? What must I do to prove myself to these people?” Sylvain creases his brow, thinking for a moment.

“I’m the wrong person to ask, buddy.” He says. Now it’s Dimitri’s turn to shrug. He sinks into the couch. 

“It’s alright. I wasn’t expecting an answer.” He replies. “This isn’t something I can tell Rodrigue. He’s a bit…”

“Overzealous?” Sylvain provides.

“Over _ bearing _ .” Dimitri shoots back. Sylvain laughs and Dimitri finds himself smiling right along. However when Sylvain stops laughing, he fixes Dimitri with a pensive smile. Dimitri has long since accepted that Sylvain sees people in a way that he can’t. When they were kids, the older man had him convinced that it was the power of his crest but no, Sylvain is just better at  _ being _ a person than he is. He’s not exactly kind but he’s sociable. A cult of personality, just like his father. Sylvain grips his shoulder. Goddess, what is it with the Gautiers and  _ touching people _ ?

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re doing great, man.” He says. It’s not but Dimitri appreciates it nonetheless. “I’m kind of kicking myself, honestly. I should’ve come to see you earlier  _ without _ the old man tagging along. You know, how he is about discretion but with everything going on in Gautier territory...”

“Oh! Right, my apologies Sylvain. Here I am running at the mouth when your mother…” Dimitri starts to say. “I’m so sorry that I…” Sylvain stops him.

“You don’t wanna spend the night talking about your dad, right?” Sylvain interjects. Dimitri just blinks at him before shaking his head. He isn’t ready for his father’s old friends to start waxing poetic about the “good old days”. Those days aren’t so old to him. “I don’t wanna talk about my mom.” Dimitri understands, but Sylvain went to such lengths to visit each of them after the Duscur Massacre. He could’ve at least attended Lady Gautier’s funeral but Rodrigue never told him about it. “You think you’re ready to go back out there and face the big bad world?” Sylvain asks clapping him on the back again. What a terrible way to change the subject.

“I’d rather spontaneously combust.” Dimitri says as he stares longingly into the fireplace. 

“Tell you what.” Sylvain says directing his gaze back to him. Goodness, their faces are quite close. “Let me know if you need another escape. Like a timeout or something.”Dimitri thinks over it a moment and frowns. 

“We aren’t sitting together, how could I possibly manage that?” He asks. 

“I mean, you can still give me a signal right?” Sylvain replies. “Felix does it all the time. Do you really think he just randomly vanishes during parties?” Dimitri opens his mouth to reply but thinks better of it because he honestly thought Felix had some sort of stealth training. He has his doubts, honestly. It’s not that he doesn’t have any confidence in Sylvain but he’s been known to get  _ distracted _ . The maids’ eagerness to play along certainly doesn’t help. One time, Sylvain pulled one of House Caron’s Waiting Ladies into his lap and the woman instantly wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. How in the world is Sylvain going to whisk him away with no one noticing especially during dinner? Despite his misgivings, Sylvain is actually trying to help. It’s touching, in a way. 

“I suppose…” Dimitri says haltingly. He has a bad feeling about this. It gets worse when the The string quartet outside suddenly stops. Through the door, he hears the head footman announce that the dining room is ready. The amiable chatter among nobles comes to an abrupt halt. Dimitri swallows. This is worse than going into battle. This time when Sylvain touches his shoulder, it feels like the only thing keeping him rooted to the ground. 

He lets his older friend lead him by the back through the doors and into the orderly crowd headed to the dining room. It smells divine. He can’t wait for this lovely meal to turn to ash in his mouth. Sylvain gives him a final wink and suddenly he’s alone again. He wonders how long everyone is going to mingle. He watches Sylvain make conversation with Felix who’s clearly on the verge of murder. Ingrid looks just as lost as he does shaking hands with Lord Caron’s youngest son. He’s cordial enough but there’s no chemistry. Right now, that man is the only other person in Faergus who knows how it feels to compete with a dead man. Instinctively, Dimitri turns to his right to say something to Dedue only to remember his friend has effectively been stuffed into the nearest closet. 

He’s already tired. Even though no one’s looking at him, he knows they’re all scrutinizing his every move. Just to prove it to himself, he takes his place at the head of the table and sits down. All conversations stop and all the guests rush to follow suit. The music falters. Rodrigue fixes him with a look but it’s only a minor breach of conduct. When the footman reenters, he only hesitates for a moment seeing everyone already seated. Dimitri envies his composure. 

“Dinner is served.” He says firmly. Like clockwork, the string quartet resumes and everyone lays their napkins in their laps. Footmen in their finely pressed suits spill into the dining room with silver domes. Rodrigue actually paid for this finery out of his own pocket. To be fair, his pockets are _ very  _ deep. The first course isn’t hard. The soup might as well be water to him but it smells nice. Everyone seems to be enjoying light conversation. Why spoil dinner with talk of politics and proposals? That’s better saved for after dessert when the men go to the drawing room and the women to the morning room. There, they can have their cocktails and cigars while he suffers through their nostalgia.

“I have to thank you, Rodrigue.” Lord Baptiste says, unprompted. “For your discretion during those hard times in Gautier Territory.” He means the death of his wife. Sylvain stops eating for a moment, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge anything his father says. “It’s not that we didn’t want anyone to know but we didn’t want to  _ further _ trouble you with news of unrest.” Rodrigue bristles but Dimitri doesn’t know what the insult is. 

“You’re quite welcome.” He says as levelly as possible. “But Isolde would like to visit Lucia at the first opportunity.” 

“She could come back with us, if she’d like.” Baptiste says with a wide grin. It doesn’t look real. He leans down the table but Lady Isolde already stares scornfully down at her late friend’s husband. “How about it, Isolde? I’m sure Lucia would finally be able to rest fitfully with you around.” A glass shatters on the floor. All eyes turn to Sylvain sitting across the table from his father who just sighs in disappointment. “For goddess’ sake, boy. You’re getting clumsier by the day.” Sylvain has the decency to look sheepish. “How exactly do you expect to hold a spear if you can’t manage dinner?” Dimitri goes to take another sip of his soup only to find that it’s been replaced with the second course. Lord Loanto gives him a quizzical look as he uses his spoon to wrangle his salad like he meant to all along. The tomato he manages to scoop up does nothing to calm the pinpricks of heat on his face. 

“Poorly.” Sylvain says cheekily and everyone at the table gives them a half hearted courtesy laugh and they return to their meals. Dimitri tries to do the same but finds his spoon is now broken. He’s been clutching it this whole time if his trembling knuckles are anything to go by. He could easily call one of the many footman standing on duty to replace it. But Rodrigue asking if he’s alright is just going to make him feel like a clumsy child in front of all these people. He shoves it under the seat cushion and haltingly grabs the outermost fork like he should’ve done when the second course came in. He stabs another tomato, getting a few leaves in the process. 

_ “Careful, Dimitri, it’s not going anywhere.”  _ The memory of his father comes to him unbidden and smiling. Suddenly he’s eight years old again attending his stepmother’s etiquette lessons. He broke the plate that day but his father just laughed and told him that he’d need to learn how to control that strength of his. Dimitri loses his appetite only to realize that there’s now some wet looking pasta before him and Rodrigue is staring at him.

“Did you hear me, Dimitri?” His godfather asks.

“With all due respect, Lord Rodrigue, at least let him start eating first.” Sylvain says. His father glares at him, but either he either doesn’t see or just doesn’t care. “Anyway, you were saying?” Rodrigue’s gaze lingers for a bit longer before he turns back to Sylvain.

“...that having the prince survey the Northern Border would be a good experience for him.” Rodrigue says. Dimitri doesn’t know if he likes being referred to in the third person. “You’ve been on the front, haven’t you Sylvain?”

“Yeah.” Is all he says before taking a large bite of pasta. 

“He’s only wielded the lance a few times.” Lord Baptiste says easily. “He’s better with an axe if you can believe it.” No one seems to. Sylvain isn’t the brute his brother is. No one asks why Miklan isn’t here. They’re afraid they already know the answer. “How about it, your highness? You’ve never seen real combat, right? How about you sharpen your skills on some Northern savages?” 

Suddenly, stares from the entire grand table pin Dimitri to his seat. All the Lords and Ladies of Faergus hang on his every word. He goes from overheated to stone cold. He wonders why the goddess bothered to spare him. Why is everyone quiet; don’t they have meals to attend to? They expect an answer. They expect so much. Each of these people carry a corner of Faergus and they are dying to place their burden on his shoulders. He opens his mouth to respond but he has no idea what he’s about to say.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Dad.” Like lights through the fog, Sylvain castigates his father in front of everyone. “The Sreng aren’t savages.” Suddenly all those burning eyes turn cold with shock and hone in on Sylvain. Dimitri wants to cry in relief. Sylvain leans forward easily as the third course is taken away. One of the footmen says something to Dimitri but he can’t hear him over his heart rattling against his ribs. “In fact, they have quite a few handsome lady warriors. Women that beautiful can’t possibly be savages.” The table laughs uneasily. Lord Baptiste doesn’t join them.

“Sylvain.” A warning. “You were only a child during the Srengi Raids.” 

“Raid is a strong word.” Sylvain snaps back. “I mean let’s be honest here, the Srengi were here first.” Murmurs around the table grow a bit louder. Dimitri notices that no one is looking at him. He glances down at his food and the pasta is now a chicken dish stuffed with Srengi peppers. How appropriate. 

“That doesn’t matter.” Lord Caron always gets involved at the worst times. “Gautier is Holy Land. Blessed by the Goddess herself. The Goddess is a denizen of  _ Fodlan _ , it’s ours by birthright.” Lord Baptiste nods in affirmation. 

“Funny. The Srengi seem to believe the same thing about _ their  _ god.” Dimitri actually didn’t know that. Judging by the shocked looks around the table and Lord Baptiste’s darkening expression, no one else did either. “In fact, they believe that their God and the Goddess were…”

“ _ Every _ lord at this table has contributed soldiers to our cause. Some of them never return home. Do you really intend to spit on their graves with further blasphemy?” Lord Baptiste challenges his son, expecting him to back down. Sylvain takes a greedy sip of his wine.

“Soldiers aren’t bargaining chips, old man. Don’t put words in my mouth.” Down the table, Ingrid’s eyes are blown wide. She opens her mouth. She clearly wants to chastise Sylvain but her father shakes his head. 

“Many say that The Srengi cursed us with The Plague.” Lady Cornelia doesn't even look up but she does smirk as she sips her wine. 

“Surely the person who  _ cured _ it doesn’t believe that.” Cornelia bristles at Sylvain’s incredulous tone. He takes a greedy swallow of his drink.

“Then tell me.” Lord Baptiste’s voice is tempered steel. “What do you believe, son?” There’s a hush over the table. No one’s eating. Sylvain is nothing but smug in the faces of Faergus’s noble elite and their self-righteous ire. Someone finally lit the fuse on this powder keg. Dimitri is just glad that it wasn’t him.

“I don’t believe in the Anti-Sreng movement, actually.” 

The table explodes. Some shout at Sylvain others at Lord Baptiste. Sick of the circus, Lady Isolde excuses herself. Felix follows his mother’s example leaving his father to fend for himself. Lord Baptiste will not be out-shouted, but Rodrigue will not let him get carried away. Cornelia sips her wine and when the shouting dies down, she adds some innocuous quips that gets it started right back up again. At some point Lord Lonato gives up and buries his face in his hands. Lady Caron starting banging the table to punctuate her screeching. The footmen glance at each other completely lost. This is an unmitigated disaster. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with him.

It’s  _ glorious. _

“You might want to head out.” Sylvain says watching the chaos he created. He may as well be at the theatre. Dimitri commits his friend’s wolfish grin to memory. He has a feeling this will be important one day. “They’re going to be a minute.” Dimitri needs no further cajoling and he leaves. He just  _ leaves _ .  _ Just like that. _ He gets up from his chair and leaves the room. No one stops him. There’s not even a glance spared in his direction. 

Before he knows it he’s  _ running _ . Running through the corridors. Running up the stairs and into his room. Dimitri flings open the door and there’s Dedue sitting at his writing desk haltingly practicing his Fodlese. He doesn’t notice Dimitri is even here until he shuts the door behind him, leaning his back up against it. There’s an entire floor between him and Rodrigue’s watchful eye. He can’t hear anything. Not even the string quartet. It’s so  _ quiet _ . He’s not sure how to deal with this much relief. So he laughs. Breathy and manic but he just keeps laughing until he’s sat on the floor panting. 

“Dimitri?” Dedue asks. Dimitri lifts his head to find his massive friend gazing at him with such tender concern. “Are you...alright?” In that moment, Dimitri is so thrilled to be called by his first name, he forgets to be embarrassed. Though self awareness tells him that he’s quite literally burst in on poor Dedue and started laughing like a madman. He stands back up and dusts himself off. A deep breath helps him compose himself. 

“Yes. I’m sorry, Dedue. I just...it feels like I’ve been forever since I’ve had a moment to myself. It was overwhelming for a moment.” He explains. Though Dedue doesn’t seem convinced. “Really, I’m fine.”

“What happened to the dinner?” His Fodlese is still a bit stilted but honestly, it’s quite charming. Dimitri smiles. It’s a pitiful little curve, but a smile nonetheless. Dedue smiles too though he’s not sure why.

“Nothing really, I just need a timeout.” 

Several hours pass before the nobility retires to their after dinner ruminations and parlor games. Dimitri and Dedue eat with the head cook that night. She’s one of the few servants in the castle that’s warmed up to Dedue. Something about “shared culinary vision”. Smoking her cigarette and propping up her poor, tired feet, she tells him all about what happened after he left. The argument carried on for quite some time. It took more than an hour to serve the fifth course. Sylvain confessed to learning the Srengi language. He even spoke Srengi at the dinner table. _In front of everyone!_ _The audacity!_ Sylvain was immediately dismissed from the table but the cook’s only complaint was that Sylvain ended up having her scullery maid for dessert. 

“I know you and Young Lord Gautier are old friends, your highness but if you want an old lady’s opinion, I’d say be careful of him. He’s the deceitful type.” Dimitri never thought of Sylvain as a liar but there’s no way he could seduce those girls by being honest. It’s been nearly four years since he’s seen his old friend. The Tragedy of Duscur changed everyone. Sylvain is no exception. He’s not just taller and broader but a little more cunning that Dimitri expected. Something about that smile bothers him but he doesn’t know why. It’s a terrible thing to say, but Dimitri doesn’t know if Sylvain is smart or not. Only a fool would provoke an infamously violent man like Margrave Gautier. However, he knows so many obscure things that he would’ve had to study them for hours. Perhaps the cook is onto something.

He doesn’t see Sylvain or anyone else for that matter until a little before midnight. All the good little boys and girls should be in bed for the night but Felix, Sylvain and Ingrid are in the training hall armed and still in their formal clothes. If their parents can smoke and drink well into the night, they should be allowed to do something useful with their time. 

“There he is. Dimitri. Spar with me.” Felix demands. “Ingrid can barely handle a lance in that contraption.” 

“Trust me, I hate this dress just as much as you do.” Ingrid replies sharply. Dress or no, she certainly looks more like herself with her hair down around her shoulders, gloves discarded and make up scrubbed off. She hands Dimitri a lance but pointedly ignores Dedue. Sylvain doesn’t say anything and runs off to get the young man a training axe. 

“Feeling a little better now, your highness?” Sylvain asks. His back is turned as he searches through the armory. 

“Better.” It’s the truth. He feels a bit lighter now even though he knows it will all come rushing back when he wakes up tomorrow. Felix sucks his teeth.

“I told that old man that this whole dinner was a bad idea, especially if all it took was Sylvain’s big mouth to ruin it.” Dimitri doesn’t remember Felix saying anything of the sort, and nearly says so before the other cuts him off. “Everyone thinks this idiot pissed you off so much that you couldn’t stand it anymore and just left. They didn’t realize you’d gone until dessert. I’ve never seen a group of people so embarrassed in my life.” Felix smirks maliciously. “It was pretty great.”

“Honestly, Sylvain you didn’t have to embarrass your father that way.” Ingrid sighs. “And don’t pretend you did all that just for Dimitri’s sake.” Sylvain returns with Dedue’s training axe. Dimitri tries not to react to the hand shaped bruise and burst burst blood vessels plastered on the right side of his face. Sylvain’s grin exposes hints of a bloody nose. Margrave Gautier clearly had a very long talk with his son.

“How do you know I didn’t?” Sylvain asks. It’s rhetorical but that doesn’t stop Dimitri from searching his friend’s face for the answer. 

He doesn’t find it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is now a part of a collection, so please comment any constructive criticism or ideas you might have for future pieces. Thanks!


End file.
